


Sonata

by silentdescant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grimmauld Place, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Piano, Pureblood Culture, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should’ve come to stay with me or James,” Remus says quietly. “I understand why you hate this place, now.”</p><p>“You don’t understand,” he mutters. “But that’s alright. I wouldn’t want you to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonata

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, and the product of drinking a lot of wine and missing my own piano.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is, in Remus’s opinion, a very stifling, depressing sort of place. It’s hard to imagine someone as vivacious as Sirius living in such a house as 12 Grimmauld Place.

Desperate for a bit of fun in the summer months, Sirius invites his friends to come and stay for a while—although pleads is a more appropriate word. James, of course, agrees at once, and Peter, while he can’t stay overnight, promises to drop in almost every day as he also lives in Islington and it’s just a short walk. Remus, when confronted with this information, grudgingly acquiesces.

The Blacks can’t possibly know about Remus’s condition, but Sirius’s mother does peer down her nose suspiciously at Remus as he enters the townhouse. She says in a distant, cold voice, “Lupin. I’m not familiar with that name. Who are your ancestors, boy?”

James and even Peter, both purebloods and distantly related to Sirius somehow, do not have to deal with this scrutiny. Remus falters for a moment before finally stuttering, “I… I’m not… I don’t know exactly, Mrs. Black…”

“He’s related to the Potters by marriage, mother,” Sirius interrupts with all the breezy confidence of a thought-out lie. He doesn’t even glance at Remus, just projects to his mother the sort of disaffected, haughty indifference that makes him so popular with the girls at Hogwarts.

James, standing behind Mrs. Black and half-sheltered in a doorway, gives Remus an urgent, wide-eyed look that very clearly says to play along with whatever comes out of Sirius’s mouth. As if Remus needs the instruction.

“Come on, Remus, I’ll show you to your room,” Sirius says. He wrests Remus’s suitcase from his hand and stalks up the stairs. James darts out of his hiding place and follows him, and Remus trails behind.

The staircase is lined with the severed heads of a shocking number of house elves. Remus swallows down a sudden burst of stomach acid welling up in his throat.

Sirius leads them up a few flights of stairs and pushes open a door on the third floor. There’s a comfortable-looking bed, an ornate standing mirror, and a writing desk inside, all clearly waiting for Remus to use. Remus sits on the bed nervously while James closes the door.

“I’m sorry about that,” Sirius says as soon as the lock clicks. “I should’ve warned you.”

“I knew it would happen,” Remus replies. “It’s why I didn’t want to come.”

“She won’t check my family tree for your name,” James assures him. “It’s enough that she knows I’m pureblood. If both of us vouch for you, it’ll be fine.”

Remus sighs, feeling very out of place already. This guest room looks very nice, if somewhat plain, but the rest of the house is darkly lavish and oppressive in its upper class stylings. No wonder Sirius hates it here.

Sirius deposits Remus’s suitcase on top of the dresser and spins around, his eyes lit up with excitement at having his mates around him again. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go down to the drawing room. My mother keeps a liquor chest in there, and she never notices when a bottle goes missing as long as I replace it within the week.”

Ten minutes later, they’ve barricaded themselves in the library—which is just as dark and creepy as the rest of the house, but at least has the comforting smell of old books—with a bottle of expensive-looking firewhiskey. Between the three of them, they put a fair bit of it away, and before long, the dark mood has lifted and the library is filled with the sounds of muffled laughter.

James eventually proclaims he’s had enough and stands up, stretching his arms wide. It overbalances him and he collapses back into his cushy chair with a satisfied sigh. “This is good, Sirius,” he says.

Remus, who has a much higher tolerance for alcohol, isn’t feeling quite so generous. He nods in noncommittal acknowledgement and takes another careful sip from the bottle before passing it to Sirius.

“Hello, whiskey, my old friend,” Sirius says, grabbing the bottle roughly and kissing the side of it. He drinks some, swallows, and then drinks some more. He is, by this point, very drunk.

“You should’ve come to stay with me or James,” Remus says quietly. “I understand why you hate this place, now.”

Sirius’s cheery mood drops considerably. “You don’t understand,” he mutters. “But that’s alright. I wouldn’t want you to. I am sorry, Remus, but I have to stay here during the summer. I’m sort of under house arrest, y’see.”

Before Remus can reply, Sirius is up off the sofa, waving the bottle around in a sloppy sort of way. The firewhiskey inside sloshes dangerously but doesn’t spill; they’ve finished too much of it. Sirius walks around for a while, apparently aimlessly, occasionally sipping at his drink.

“I’m glad we could be here, then,” Remus offers. James gives him an approving—if sleepy—nod.

Sirius then throws himself onto a piano bench at the far end of the long, narrow room and slams his elbow down on the keys. The grand piano is black, of course, and shiny on top, but the keys let up a cloud of dust when Sirius presses them, and from beneath the lid, the harsh, discordant sound also seems dampened from disuse. Remus goes over to the piano and peers inside, finding dust and a few dead spiders.

“You going to serenade us, then?” he asks.

“Only if you climb on top and put on a show like the girls in Busty and Bewitched,” Sirius replies with a drunken leer. He raises the bottle to his lips but doesn’t drink. He seems lost in thought until Remus takes the firewhiskey away from him.

Then, to Remus’s surprise, Sirius actually does set his fingers to the keys. Remus doesn’t know how to play the piano, but Sirius’s long, thin fingers curl in an easy, natural sort of way. He flexes them and presses down a chord experimentally.

“I don’t know any jazz,” he says apologetically to Remus, and then, louder, “Or any rock and roll, unfortunately, James.”

“But you do know how to play?” Remus asks curiously.

“Oh, yes.”

Though the piano obviously hasn’t been used in quite some time, and in all five years they’ve lived together at Hogwarts, Remus has never known Sirius to have any type of musical ability, Sirius launches into a light, energetic classical piece and plays it from start to finish. To Remus’s untrained ears, Sirius only hits a few wrong notes, which is impressive, given his current state. He only stumbles a couple of times and he recovers quickly, though the tempo does seem to be all over the place. That could be intentional, though, Remus isn’t sure.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano,” Remus murmurs. He’s transfixed by Sirius’s confident fingers on the keys. He watches how they move, how they jump around, how lightly they press the correct notes, and he’s suddenly incredibly jealous that there is yet another skill that Sirius has mastered effortlessly.

“Play us another one, maestro!” James calls, an arm flung up into the air with a flourish.

“Piss off,” Sirius shouts back, but as he looks up at Remus, he moves his hands back into position for another song. Remus notices that Sirius’s back is impossibly straight, even more proper than when he forgets to deliberately ruin his posture at school. Remus guesses that aristocratic deportment is something so ingrained in Sirius that it would be impossible for him to unlearn it. “What would you like to hear, Moony?”

“I don’t know any classical music by name,” Remus replies regretfully.

“Do the one that goes da-da-da-dahhhh,” James says with particular emphasis.

“That’s Beethoven you’re murdering, you uncultured swine.”

“So do Beethoven properly then. I know you like Beethoven.”

Sirius begins to play again, but not the song James had suggested. It’s something slow, though no less dramatic, and Remus can’t take his eyes off the graceful movement of Sirius’s hands.

“This is Beethoven as well, actually,” Sirius says for Remus’s benefit. “My favorite of all the ones I know. My tutor reckons he was a wizard, you know. How else could he’ve written all that brilliant music when everyone says he couldn’t hear worth a damn.”

“If he was a wizard, you’re probably related to him,” Remus says. “You’re related to most people, aren’t you?”

Sirius doesn’t answer. The music quickens slightly and Sirius does a complicated-looking scale with his right hand. His fingers slip on the keys, but he pushes through the mistakes and the song eventually returns to its slow, beautiful melody.

“What’s this one called?”

“Funny you ask,” Sirius replies with a low chuckle.

“Why funny?”

“This is the Moonlight Sonata, actually. What do you think of that, eh, Moony?”

Remus listens to the song for a moment. It’s clearly one Sirius knows very well, because he turns his face up to watch Remus and seems to be barely paying attention to what his hands are doing.

“It’s quite sad, isn’t it? You said this was your favorite?”

The ghost of a smile flickers across Sirius’s face. “Yes, well. It’s good for putting people to sleep. I think I hear James snoring.” He stops playing abruptly and stands, nearly upsetting the bench in his haste to move away from the piano.

Remus finishes the remainder of the firewhiskey and joins Sirius and James in the seating area at a leisurely pace. He wanted to hear how the song ended, but he knows, from Sirius’s troubled expression, that it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask. Sirius is always guarded when he talks about his family and his childhood, but he loses that mask when he’s drunk, and right now, it’s painfully clear that this is an event Sirius will pretend to forget come morning.

 

 _fin_.


End file.
